


eat your heart out, lover

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Witcher Geralt, am i bringing ffxv monsters into the witcher? absolutely, jas and geralt hunt a mindflayer bc i say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: He reads, again, the string of messages from one of Geralt’s followers, describing a beast that looks like a cephalopod of some kind that floats in the air, attacking with quick strikes and engulfing its poor victims in its tentacles, leaving them half-eaten if they’re lucky, and brain dead if they’re not.Jaskier shudders, and it’s not from the cool bite in the air. It sounds a bit unbelievable, a flying octopus-squid that eats people, but Jaskier has been with Geralt long enough to know all manner of creatures roam the earth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 215





	eat your heart out, lover

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentines day part two~! （˶′◡‵˶）
> 
> i promised twitter that i'd do a monster hunt date night fic so here it is! also—the official debut of the modern witcher au! hope u guys enjoy~
> 
> i 100% took the mindflayer daemon from final fantasy xv for them to hunt bc i havent actually played the witcher games and didnt feel like doing research into the kinds of monsters u hunt in it so here we are !

“So, what are we hunting again?”

“Not sure,” Geralt replies. He sweeps his flashlight across the edge of the beach, illuminating the waves gently rolling in. Their steps are muffled in the sand as they walk.

There’s no moon visible tonight, just a sky full of stars, and Jaskier thinks it might be considered romantic if not for the lingering smell of rotten flesh and overall atmosphere of _death_ now permeating this once-tranquil place.

It makes Jaskier roll his eyes, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Oh, joy,” he mutters, pulling up Twitter, “Just what I wanted to do for Valentine’s day: sneak around a beach in search of something _we don’t even know._ Excellent! We could be at home, eating dinner and making love, but no!”

Geralt just grunts, and Jaskier looks up long enough to imagine the smirk Geralt throws back at him, because it’s too dark for him to see it properly. “Like you don’t get all hot and bothered watching me get covered in gore.”

He’s not even _wrong,_ that’s the thing. Jaskier sputters in offense anyway. “That’s—! Wholly beside the point,” he finishes lamely, and Geralt snorts. “Shut up.”

Geralt does, and Jaskier looks back at his phone, muttering under his breath. He reads, again, the string of messages from one of Geralt’s followers, describing a beast that looks like a cephalopod of some kind that _floats_ in the air, attacking with quick strikes and engulfing its poor victims in its tentacles, leaving them half-eaten if they’re lucky, and brain dead if they’re not.

Jaskier shudders, and it’s not from the cool bite in the air. It sounds a bit unbelievable, a flying octopus-squid that eats people, but Jaskier has been with Geralt long enough to know all manner of creatures roam the earth, mostly keeping to themselves until humans start intruding on their spaces.

Either way, the description of this particular monster is absolutely hideous, and Jaskier makes a face. They drove all the way to the coast for this one, two restless days in the car with maybe nine hours of sleep between them. They’d crashed at a little bed and breakfast about three miles from where the sightings had been to wait for night, when the creature was most active, according to the owner.

And, well. It is now very dark and very spooky on this particular beach, and Jaskier wraps Geralt’s hoodie he’d stolen on the way out the door tighter around his body, moving closer to Geralt.

“Scared, Jas?”

Jaskier scoffs, bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s. “As _if,”_ he says haughtily. “Disgusted, mostly. Nothing about this thing sounds even remotely interesting. A cephalopod that _eats_ people? Talk about the tables turning. Do you think they call us sushi?”

It makes Geralt laugh, and Jaskier smiles to himself. They might be on a deserted beach in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, searching in the dark for a creature that supposedly might eat them, but at least they’re together.

They walk a handful of steps further, and the temperature suddenly drops, a freezing sort of chill engulfing them, much more ominous and unsettling than before. Geralt is immediately on high alert, swinging the flashlight toward the rocky outcrop ten or so meters in front of them, where a faint, almost indiscernible glow pours into the night.

“Stay behind me,” Geralt says, and Jaskier huffs, but does as told. He’s not useless—he can put Geralt on his ass three times out of seven in their practice spars at the gym, and he’s been taking self-defense classes for almost four years now—but he supposes with unknown creatures, it’s better safe than sorry.

Satisfied that Jaskier is going to listen, Geralt pulls out his sword—Jaskier hears the _shing!_ of it leaving the sheath—and they creep closer to the outcrop. Jaskier’s skin crawls, and the stench of death gets stronger, curdled milk and rotten eggs and sewage that’s almost suffocating. There’s soft, low growling, and something squelches in a way that makes his stomach turn and his insides squirm uncomfortably.

A sudden screech pierces the air, and Jaskier stumbles back as something rushes out of the rock, presumably emerging from its cave. It’s only by sheer reflex that he catches the flashlight as Geralt tosses it to him, and he immediately points it at the thing hovering— _actually floating_ —several feet before them.

Tentacles—actual tentacles! Holy shit!—undulate beneath an almost humanoid upper body, graceful and hypnotizing in the most bizarre way. Its arms reach toward them, billowing what almost looks like sleeves behind them, and it screeches again. It leans back, and Jaskier has a bad feeling as he watches the tentacles twist and wind up, his heart beating fast against his ribs and blood rushing to his ears, and he wants to close his eyes so he won’t see whatever’s coming but he can’t—

—and Geralt is in front of him, sword braced against the lunging attack, the tentacles hitting the silver and flying apart as the creature is forced back with a simultaneous burst of _Aard_ from Geralt’s palm.

“Get back!”

Jaskier doesn’t have to be told twice—he turns and runs, hopping lightly over the sand to put as much space between him and the creature as possible while Geralt stays on the offensive and attacks. He doesn’t go as far as he probably should, because as utterly _terrifying_ as that thing is, he won’t leave Geralt alone, and heightened witcher senses or not, having an actual light source _does_ help, thank you very much.

He keeps the flashlight trained on Geralt, adrenaline pumping through him and making him itch to _move._ The creature has retreated a bit, tentacles calm once again as it watches Geralt approach, feet placed precisely where he means, stance solid, sword raised.

It really is a hideous thing—the description was spot on about the octopus-squid parts, but Jaskier is mildly intrigued by the almost human upper-half, the way it almost looks like it’s wearing a high-collared coat typical of pirate period fashion.

He is, inexplicably, put in mind of Davy Jones, and this is truly shaping up to be one of their weirder hunts for sure.

He must laugh or make a noise of some kind, because the creature suddenly jerks its head in his direction, and Jaskier has only a beat to think before it’s coming at him, a horrible sound erupting from it as it lunges, and Jaskier scrambles back, nearly dropping the flashlight.

It opens its mouth, and Jaskier is frozen in place as a fine, chilled mist pours from it, immediately engulfing him. He lets out a yelp, fingers twitching and his skin stinging, eyes watering and doubling over. When he breathes it in, he chokes on the sickly sweetness of it, saccharine to the point of tasting sour and rancid.

“Jaskier!”

He coughs, falling to his knees, trying to avoid the tentacles as he crawls away from it. The creature’s attention is drawn back to Geralt, and Jaskier claws at the sand to pull himself out of the mist.

“I’m fine!” he shouts back, though it’s very much belied by the hacking retch that follows. The sting in his skin is abating slowly, and his eyes don’t hurt quite so much, though there’s now a deep ache in his bones. “I think it’s just meant to stun! Not poisonous!”

“Oh, so now you’re an expert? You were the one complaining we don’t know what it is!”

Jaskier hears Geralt grunt as the thing launches itself at him again, screeching when it comes up against the silver sword and another burst of _Aard_. He huffs, spitting up the taste of rancid sour candy, and manages to roll his eyes. His witcher sometimes, honestly.

“I’m still alive!” he shoots back, gripping the flashlight he’d dropped when the creature came at him. “That’s got to mean something!”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier can _hear_ the eye roll, “it means you’re fucking lucky, you idiot!”

When Jaskier gets the beam of light trained back on where he thinks Geralt is, he sees him taking swings at the creature, aiming to cut off the tentacles or even one of its arms when it makes to grab him. He lands a solid hit to its chest, knocking it back, and it roars in outrage, backing away and floating higher in the air.

Jaskier sees its next attack in slow motion—the beam of the flashlight catches its attention as he moves to follow the creature, to keep it in his sight. It looks directly at him, face contorted, and rears up again, tentacles twisting beneath the tails of its coat. Jaskier is rooted to the spot, watching it with wide eyes, unable to move, foreboding and _fear_ gripping his limbs and keeping him still.

“ _Jaskier, move!”_

But he can’t—and the creature dives, an ear-shattering screech piercing the air, and Geralt is quick but not quick enough, not this time, and Jaskier _forces_ his legs to work, to move, to _run_ —

—but it’s too late.

Cold, slick appendages wrap around him, dripping with mucus or slime or some combination of both, Jaskier isn’t sure, but it makes his skin crawl and his stomach heave as he’s pulled from the ground. He wants to yell, to scream, but his mouth is full of the slick-mucus-slime as the creature pulls him _into_ itself, and tiny, razor-sharp needles latch onto him like teeth, piercing his skin and drawing blood, and he’s suddenly _very_ dizzy, and it feels as if his brain is on _fire,_ being pulled out of his ears and nose and mouth and eyes, suffocating and choking on his own spinal cord, and he _hurts,_ he hurts so much, please stop just stop please _please please just stop stop let go let go—_

“ _JASKIER!_ ”

There is a roar, and a squelch, and a squeal, and Jaskier is suddenly falling, dropping back to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs as his knees buckle beneath him. He gasps for air, coughing and spitting out the rotten taste of dead flesh, and he wipes away the sticky substance from his eyes to try to stop the burning. His face and neck sting, as well as his hands, and he can tell he’s bleeding.

Gods, he’s going to need so many bandages and Neosporin.

The dizziness has abated, thank the gods, and he can think clearly. He looks up, squinting in the dark, and the flashlight has fallen so that it illuminates the space in front of him where Geralt stands, steel sword now drawn, held protectively in front of Jaskier’s head while the silver sword is brandished in his other hand.

The creature drips a sickly colored substance—blood, maybe—and cries out, lunging at Geralt in one last, desperate attempt at an attack.

Quick, graceful as a dancer, Geralt brings the steel sword up and forward, shoving it into the center of the creature’s chest.

It screeches, thrashes, arms swinging wildly, and makes another grab at Geralt—

—and Geralt shoves the silver sword through its head, deep into its brain. He breathes heavily, muscles tense, braced in the sand, and with a yell he brings the swords toward himself, cutting through the creature and yanking blood and organs and meat and flesh along with it, and the creature dies with an agonized sound, dissolving into the air in a mist of shimmering blue dust.

And it’s over.

The tension stringing through his own body snaps, and Jaskier sinks towards the ground, unable to hold himself up. A long, silent breath leaves him, heart pounding against his ribs, and he closes his eyes as the adrenaline fades.

Warm hands cup his cheeks, trailing gentle and feather-light over his skin, and Jaskier melts into Geralt’s touch, melts into Geralt.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, and his voice is tight and thin, worry and anger threaded into his normal rough tone. “Jaskier. Are you okay?”

“I’m alright,” Jaskier says, and enjoys the attention. He’s absolutely shot in the brain, is what, and he doesn’t want to _think._ “Looks worse than it is, I’m sure.”

Geralt growls, something dissatisfied and upset. “It _looks_ like you were mauled, Jas. Gods, I’m so sorry.”

“Battle scars,” Jaskier says, waving it off. He reaches up to grip Geralt’s arms, hanging on tight—grounding himself. The slime from the creature squishes between his fingers and he makes a face. He’s _disgusting_ right now. “I’ll heal.”

Despite being covered in strange muck and probably half an intestine, Geralt leans forward and presses his lips to Jaskier’s forehead, lingering and inhaling the smell of him. It can’t be pleasant, not covered in monster goop like he is, but the tension leaves Geralt’s shoulders and he relaxes too, wraps Jaskier in his arms and holds him close.

They stay like that for a long moment, feeling each other alive and breathing and well, if not covered in strange substances and blood. Eventually, Geralt pulls away, no doubt looking over Jaskier with his heightened witcher sight. He makes a sound in his throat, but at Jaskier’s exasperated look, he bites his tongue and doesn’t comment, which Jaskier appreciates.

They’re alive, and the monster is dead—Jaskier will take his victories where he can.

Geralt puts his arm around Jaskier and they hobble to their feet, ready to head back to the little bed and breakfast. They pause so Geralt can look at the remains, mostly just entrails and blood, and Jaskier holds the flashlight pointed at the mess on the sand, wrinkling his nose when Geralt steps over to inspect it.

“If you touch any of that, you’re sleeping on the floor tonight,” Jaskier warns him, shuddering in revulsion.

Geralt, standing back up from where he was poking around in the gore, gives him a cheeky grin and holds out his hand. In it, crusted in drying blood, and oozing something out the side, is what looks like a lump of grey matter, and Jaskier thanks his lucky stars he hasn’t eaten in almost twelve hours.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Geralt says teasingly, and Jaskier realizes it’s the thing’s _heart_ that he’s holding out to Jaskier.

It’s _disgusting_ and _vile_ and Jaskier wants to set it on _fire_ so the ooze doesn’t get on his shoes—

—and it’s probably the most romantic thing Geralt could have done for him on a night like tonight.

With a shake of his head, Jaskier reaches out and takes the gross thing in his hands. It feels as slimy as it looks, and Jaskier kind of wants to throw up at the smell.

“I hate you,” he says, with feeling, “and I love you, you insufferable witcher.”

Geralt just laughs, and Jaskier supposes it’s only in the spirit of the day that he shut him up with a kiss that tastes like creature ooze and stale breath mint.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me [@troubadorer](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) on twitter for lots of yelling and fic threads abt our favorite dumbasses~!


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